Beautiful, Imperfect
by K9Lasko
Summary: They attempt to navigate a new relationship while weathering relocation, infidelity, missed signals, and an impending health crisis.
1. Chapter 1

**Story Synopsis: **Tony and Tim try to navigate their new relationship while weathering relocation, infidelity, missed signals, and an impending health crisis. Can they help each other find common ground?

**Author's Note:** This story has a bit of history to it. It's my first attempt at a full length story about Tim/Tony, AND my first slash piece. I hesitate to label it "slash." Sometimes I feel like slash is written as some sort of joke. Or maybe as some sort of challenge to get two previously "100% straight" (society's words, not mine) men (or women) into a sexual relationship with one another. I'll admit I'm not much of a romance writer; I know folks who are 10x better at it. Sure, there's a little bit in here, but nothing that I think strays above a T rating. So, I'll just say that this isn't a slash story, nor is it really a romance story. It's about two guys who've found themselves in a relationship. As I like to do with many of my stories, the ending is fairly open-ended. Four chapters in all. As far as how this story fits within the canon timeline, I don't really know. Season 9 maybe, but then it's AU from there. Ziva is still with us. No Delilah.

Please let me know what you think!

**Thank Yous: **Inspiration for this story originally came from one of Sherry's (smackalicious) unused WEE prompts. It was a quote. Something about beautiful things not always being perfect. So a big thank you to her for letting me use it. Also, she looked over this first chapter long, long ago and gave me the confidence to continue on with it. I also want to thank both Sheila (hazelmom) and Sarah (flootzavut) for their awesome support and kind words.

**Warnings:** Occasional strong language, sexual references, sex in general

* * *

**Beautiful, Imperfect**

_**"A beautiful thing is never perfect."**_

* * *

_...As Tim rested his head against the hard shower wall, sated and ashamed, he knew one thing for sure: there was no way in Hell he was leaving his life behind for Tony. Even if this was what encompassed his life as of late..._

**Chapter One**

The restaurant was expensive, and with it being New Year's Eve in the heart of Washington DC, the place was adequately packed to the gills. Smart looking couples clad in Burberry and Valentino had emerged en masse from their gentrified apartments. They had descended upon the restaurant like displaced royalty, and for at least one night, they splurged on vintage bottles of Champagne, fifty-dollar lobster tails, and artisan-crafted thimbles of crème brûlée.

So when a certain DiNozzo had casually informed him of their mutual evening plans, Tim had spent the better part of an hour making sure his checkbook wouldn't bounce when all was said and done.

"Kind of expensive, don't you think?" Tim mentioned while nervously fingering the white cloth napkin. He knew enough about this restaurant to know that Tony must have called days ahead for reservations. It was hard to deny that it felt special to be the recipient of such planning.

Tony was clearly in his element. He liked expensive, dramatic things, and when things just weren't expensive or dramatic enough, he'd do his best to fix that problem. "I'm Italian!" Tony had explained more than once. "What do you expect?"

"Only half Italian," Tim would point out. And to that, Tony would wink and off things would go, hurtling around at Mach speeds. Invariably dramatic and expensive and - on occasion - traumatic. Hurricane DiNozzo tended to leave little in its wake.

Their friendly head slapping, shoulder-bumping bromance had started to bubble into something else, something subtly different but still the same. They'd been spending more work-time together and using more mobile-to-mobile minutes than was strictly necessary to get the job done. And recently, they'd been making up excuses in order to spend evenings at each other's places. Movie nights, video game nights, martini nights. They usually forgot to invite anybody else but each other. They already knew each other well, but now they were starting to know each other even better.

Oftentimes, Tim wished for something more straightforward and earnest. Something that could be defined and labeled, maybe. But Tony's personality was like a drug. It had the ability to assuage and defer.

Tony could pull the wool over Tim's eyes before he even knew what was happening, and that fact had Tim concerned. Concerned and wary. Tony had been acting strangely all month, even through Christmas which they had reluctantly spent apart because the team was off-duty - Tim with his family and Tony with himself, a bottle of Jack, and - inevitably - Gibbs.

The tight rope the two traversed was fraying. And the alligators in the pit below were looking mighty hungry.

"Oh, I know it's expensive," Tony winked. "But I have a surprise." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Drink your champagne."

Tim was suspicious. "Why?"

"Because you're gonna need it."

Sighing and shaking his head, Tim took a sip. And then a gulp. Yeah, maybe he would need it tonight. Plus, this was really good champagne. Really, really good. He could almost taste the one hundred bucks it probably cost, which was ridiculous in and of itself. Tony was heir to nothing but DiNozzo Sr's bad bets, but all the same, the man spent money like he had his own private mint.

The waiter brought some escargot, and Tony was already inhaling the first one. Tim set the champagne flute down and fingered its base. "It's good." He looked around at the surrounding tables. A sea of couples, men and women mostly, and one group of five that seemed to be just barely holding back on its rowdiness, considering the dignified surroundings.

"Glad you approve, McThrifty."

"So what's the surprise?" Tim blurted. He didn't like surprises, while Tony seemed obsessed with them, as long as he wasn't the target of them. The suspense was - well - suspenseful.

"Well-" There it was. Nervousness, anxiety, excitement. "We're moving to Chicago."

Tim blinked. He thought he must have misunderstood something. Maybe it was all of the talking and clinking of dinnerware going on around them. Maybe it was the tinkling of live piano music somewhere to their right. Maybe it was the champagne already seeping into his bloodstream. "What?" Tim asked in all earnestness.

"Chicago," Tony explained, leaning forward again. "Technically, Great Lakes, Illinois, but-"

"What?" Tim asked again. His face dropped into a frown. "We're what?"

"Moving? Together?" Tony seemed enthusiastic, but Tim's rather bemused expression was starting to chip that away. "I got a team. Can you believe it? I talked to Gibbs about it over Christmas. He thinks it's a good move for me, you know, career wise. Since I turned down Rota and everything. And it's a great place, really. You'd like it. Cheaper than here. We can buy a house-"

What the hell? Tim was floored, truly and utterly. Something roared in his head. He doubted it was the champagne, but he knew it was Tony and what seemed like his insanity. Insanity. Tim just sat there, forgetting to both blink and breathe, fingers now moving the flute in a small circular motion on the tablecloth. It was a false calm as Tony's prattle ran on.

"-Get a cat maybe. A huge yard for Jethro. I don't know. And I know you've been talking about being tired of DC, and I agree-"

Holy shit.

Tim finally spoke, voice low and soft. "Tony." He looked intently at the man sitting across from him and searched his eyes for some sort of joke. But he couldn't find it. "Tony, I don't know on what planet you'd think this was a good surprise. Or even a good idea. We're not even- You've never even-" He couldn't finish his sentences.

"But Tim, I thought-" Tony's face was conveying a fair bit of concern now. A bit of panic.

"No, Tony. I don't think you were 'thinking' at all. What were you- When were you- Just what?" Tim shook his head and moved to get up, placing the napkin, mostly unused, on the table. "I don't even know."

Tony watched quietly from where he sat. He didn't move to get up. Yet.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but that's not exactly something you spring on someone." Tim tried to keep his voice hushed, but the scene wasn't low-key enough to avoid the curious glances of those who were sitting nearby.

"Timmy, c'mon!" Tony started to say, the playfulness falling flat.

But Tim was carefully keeping his eyes averted. The truth was, he was pissed. Beyond pissed. But there was no way he was going to blow a gasket - which would be an event as rare as snow on the moon - here in this restaurant surrounded by peaceful, well adjusted, well defined, and sane couples. Instead, he'd just leave Tony here to pick up the tab.

"No," Tim grunted as he made sure he had his wallet. "Just, no."

And that was that.

* * *

"Hey! Tim, come on, stop! Slow down! I'm going to have a heart attack back here! Come on. Hey!"

Tim didn't slow. He wanted to get home, sooner rather than later. Even though his New Year's Eve dinner had been sufficiently ruined, the night was still young. He had several bottles of sparkling wine waiting for him in the refrigerator, and there were three straight hours of Anderson Cooper to take in. Maybe afterwards, while drunk on cheap liquor and the whole New Year thing, he would write. He'd write about Agent Tommy being an insensitive prick. Wait, no. Maybe he'd start something completely new. The whole Deep Six thing was getting a little stale, and there were still some sour grapes after his agent gave the red light on the idea of Tommy and McGregor ever giving each other hand jobs in the janitor's closet. If she only knew… Hell, if anybody knew… If both he and Tony got their heads out of their asses…

"Tim! C'mon! It's fucking cold out here! At least let me drive you home! Let me get the car!"

Still, Tim didn't slow. His hands were balled up and shoved into the deep pockets of his black coat. He hurried across a busy street, just as the flashing hand signal turned to a solid hand. Hopefully Tony would have to stop, allowing Tim the opportunity to slip into the crowd and become anonymous.

Instead he heard tires sliding on slushy pavement, a cacophony of car horns, and a few choice words thrown out of rolled down windows. Tim wheeled around in alarm only to see Tony doggedly jogging across the crosswalk, slipping and sliding as he did. He seemed oblivious to the vehicular traffic that almost ran him down. Tim toyed with the idea of turning back around and continuing his angry power walk, but Tony was close now. This public street corner was just as good as any other street corner on which to scream at each other. The mounds of plowed snow were just as gray, the slush just as sloppy and black, the spots of dog piss just as yellow.

"You didn't think that would stop me, did ya?" Tony was panting as he pulled to a stop. His breath rose in puffs of thick steam, his cheeks and nose were red, and he was shivering. Actually shivering, because - Tim noticed - the idiot must have left his coat behind in his haste. "Because I know-" he panted. "-that trick."

The two of them stood on the street corner for a bit and stared at each other. Tim spoke first, "So you're quitting?"

Tony shrugged and looked at the traffic. "No, I'm just being promoted."

"You're quitting the team, then."

"I already accepted the job. In Great Lakes," Tony explained. "It was sort of short notice. They needed somebody quickly. A supervisory agent." He had to yell a bit, to make sure his voice carried over the constant roar of the traffic.

"When did you apply?"

Tony shrugged again even as he answered the question. "A couple months ago."

"A couple months ago," Tim echoed. He watched Tony's eyes, murky and dark in the faux evening light, with the streetlights overhead and the headlights whipping by. A small group walked past, laughing amongst themselves, arm in arm. They were already warm with liquor, already happy to celebrate a new year. Tim wished he could be one of them. "And when did you accept it?"

Same shrug. "Three days ago."

"Three days ago." Tim nodded. "Why didn't you tell me about any of this?"

"I was confused."

Again, Tim echoed, "You were confused." His repeating of Tony's answers made them sound even more ridiculous than they already were. It helped him process his annoyance, his shock and disappointment.

"I was!" Tony's voice cracked. "I don't know what I'm fucking doing, Tim. I don't know what we're doing."

"Apparently," Tim muttered as he ran numb fingers through his hair. "When are you moving?"

Tony dodged the question. "I want you to come with me." He stepped forward and gripped Tim's elbows gently. He was close. Close enough for Tim to smell garlic and champagne.

Tim shook his head. Slowly at first, and then quicker and more resolute. "I don't know what you are to me, Tony."

"What does that mean?" Tony seemed genuinely curious. Desperate, even. He leaned forward, determined that his closeness alone would be enough to convince him.

Tim felt Tony's breath tickle his neck; he should have worn a scarf. With a strange look of regret, he shook Tony's hands off of him and stepped back. "One day you're pushing me away - saying we're just buds - and the next you're asking me to quit the job I love, leave the friends I love, leave the boss I love, drop everything and move across the country. With you." Tim gave Tony a soft look, a placatory look. "I'm not moving to Chicago with you. I can't."

It might have been the light, or the cold, or any number of things - but, honest to God, Tony looked like he was about to cry.

Tim turned, and he started walking. This time, he wasn't followed.

* * *

Thirty minutes until midnight, thirty minutes until a new year.

Tim was sprawled on his couch, half-drunk on his promised bottles of sparkling wine. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching. He was wondering whether or not it was possible to "break up" a relationship that had never been acknowledged, a relationship that maybe never even existed.

It was great. Just great. Pathetic, really.

Happy fucking New Year, Timothy McGee. You've been doing shameless things with your dysfunctional co-worker for the past several months. You're crazy, stupid in love with him. Maybe. And you want to kick him in the face. Because he's a bastard. A crazy, stupid bastard.

"Tim."

He woke up from the haze, squinting. He must have fallen asleep with Tony. Again. God, his back hurt. Wait. Tony? Tim moved to sit up.

"You said you didn't know who I was to you." Tony was talking.

Tim rubbed at his eyes, croaking, "What're you doing here?"

"Don't kick me out. Please."

"What time is it? I swear I just closed my eyes." Tim looked around groggily, eyes finally resting on Tony. He was standing in the dark wearing a long black coat and a dark blue scarf. They were the things he'd forgotten at the restaurant. He must have gone back. To settle the bill, to drink the rest of the expensive champagne, to chat up the dark-haired woman who'd been sitting alone three tables over.

The TV was still on; it cast artificial blue light throughout the room. An infomercial touted a facial cream strong enough to turn back the march of time. A man with an orange plastic face proved it.

Tim blinked as he moved a throw pillow off of his belly and stretched his cramped legs. "What time is it?" he asked again. His head was still muzzy. Damn champagne.

"I don't know." Tony shrugged. "Four, maybe."

Tim moaned. "In the morning?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"What are you doing here?" Tim was trying to read Tony's face, but the flashes of light from the television weren't enough to go on.

Suddenly, Tony came closer and practically sat on his lap. He was heavy. Unsteady and slow. Drunk. And before Tim had a chance to squirm away or push him off, Tony had pressed himself close. His face was nuzzling against Tim's neck just like the muzzle of a horse might, whuffling and warm. It was awkward and weird. "You said you didn't know who I was to you," Tony repeated in a murmur. He smelled like gin, spearmint and Chanel No. 5.

Wait. Perfume?

"I don't," Tim finally admitted. He sat still and stared at the TV. He tried to ignore what Tony was doing. Tried to focus on the wrinkles on the women's faces. The orange, plastic-faced man, smirking like he knew something everybody else didn't.

Tim felt like an idiot. A big, fat fool.

He felt the kisses now, wet and slobbery. Tony had the finesse of a mastiff. He felt Tony's hands groping. "Stop," Tim demanded, voice halting and quiet.

"I'll give up the promotion," Tony mumbled. He wasn't stopping. If anything, his efforts became more insistent. "I'll stay here. I'll do anything." He shifted to prevent himself from toppling off of the couch and onto the hardwood floor. "Anything at all."

That smell of perfume clung to Tim's nostrils. It was thick and nauseating. A sudden reminder. A wake-up call. He felt a cold hand on his belly, felt it slide against his skin, past the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. "Who did you meet, Tony? At the bar?" He asked, voice bland, monotone. His eyes didn't leave the TV.

"She looked like Kate." Tony breathed heavily against his throat. He kissed and nudged.

Tim kept his body still, even as Tony touched him. There was nothing he could do about a natural reaction. He hated himself for that. Hated Tony for doing it. "And how'd that go?" He found himself asking. "What did it feel like?"

"Like sex." Tony slurred. He was jerking Tim off now. Crudely. There was no other way to define it, really.

Tim felt numb, even as he felt his body enjoy it. "Why do you think that's okay?"

"It's not okay," Tony admitted. "I'm sorry."

"No, you can't just-" Tim fought away his urge to groan, although that was becoming increasingly difficult. He gathered up his anger and his revulsion, planning to dump it all on Tony's lap.

"I want to show you what I am to you," Tony pled.

That was it. Tim grabbed Tony's arm to forcibly make him stop. "Knock it off," he demanded, suddenly more awake than ever. When Tony still fought against the resistance, Tim shoved him away. Hard. "Stop! That's not how you prove yourself to somebody. God, Tony. What's wrong with you?"

Tony lost his balance and fell into a clumsy sit on the hardwood floor. "Don't you want to know?" He protested, as he looked up at where Tim was still perched on the couch.

"Do you love me?" Tim asked before he had even considered the lameness of the question. He cringed, suddenly embarrassed, and felt his face grow hot.

"I don't love anybody," Tony answered simply. "I don't even love myself."

Tim stared at his friend (boyfriend… fuck buddy… whatever) for a good, long minute, as if trying to figure out what the fuck that meant. He then shook his head and got up, throwing the pillow with a fair bit of force at Tony's chest. "You're a liar. And a manipulative piece of shit." Tim's jaw clenched as he said it. Those were some of the harshest words he'd ever spoken to Tony, let alone a friend or otherwise. "I'm taking a shower, so get out of here."

* * *

That was Tony's problem. Sex. Always had been. Always would be. Nothing was sacred. Given the time, the place, and the opportunity, Tony seemed incapable of self-control.

In the scalding spray of the shower, Tim viciously scrubbed away Tony's slobbery kisses. He had already mangled a difficult to open bottle of conditioner, having beaten it over and over again against the shower's wall. In the end, the plastic had cracked and let loose a lumpy cascade of creamy white liquid. It plopped against the shower floor and slid innocently down the drain. Tim glared at it.

He sure hoped Tony had caught some sense and left. Tim was not above punching him in the face. Fueled by anger and a need to feel some release - and with a little help from a palm full of the ruined conditioner and a showerhead pushed all the way to the right - Tim sought to finish what Tony had started. He went slow at first, and then faster and harsher, until his hips were jerking involuntarily and he was biting his lip. He tried to keep his mind blank. But when he couldn't do that, he tried to think only of anonymous breasts and not the feel of Tony's hands traveling up and down his sides.

Tim moaned at the futility of it all.

As he rested his head against the hard shower wall, sated and ashamed, he knew one thing for sure: there was no way in Hell he was leaving his life behind for Tony. Even if this was what encompassed his life as of late.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks everybody for the feedback so far! Hope you all continue to enjoy.

* * *

_...Tony regarded the slightly crushed toilet paper roll. "Gotcha."..._

**Chapter Two**

"Someone's got an announcement to make," Gibbs mentioned casually without taking his eyes off of a stack of NCIC printouts.

This morning, the second day of the New Year, had been the "q" word that must never be mentioned. The phones in their corner of the floor were mostly silent. The members of Team Gibbs drifted in peacefully. They were all on time, or a few seconds after on time, and Gibbs either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared, although the former seemed less likely. They'd taken their seats without the usual bickering. Just friendly "hellos" and "how was your holiday" and "it was nice, thank you" and "that's great."

Then again, what was considered peaceful to some could be seen as awkward to others. Tony and Tim, in true man-style, made a decent play at normalcy. They nodded at each other and shared stiff smiles. But when they sensed Ziva's narrowed eyes and probing curiosity, they decided ignoring each other would be for the best.

Tim kept his nose pointed towards his computer. Ziva highlighted and re-highlighted details written in a report. And Tony. Well, Tony still looked half-asleep. He had dozed off, chin propped up by his palm, to the distant lullaby of ringing phones and muffled nearby conversation.

Gibbs peered over his reading glasses to glare at Tony. He spoke louder this time. "Don't you, DiNozzo?"

"Huh? What? Where?" Tony looked around. He hoped they would get a case, not because he enjoyed poking around dead bodies, but because it meant he could someway somehow team up with Tim. Corner him in the car, maybe. Alone.

"Go on," Gibbs encouraged. The lead agent was oddly sedate, gentle even.

It put Tony on edge.

Ziva put down her highlighter and stared, while Tim finally laid his eyes on Tony for what seemed like the first time that morning. If looks could impale and dismember… Tim obviously hadn't forgotten anything over the past two days.

"Right." Tony gazed at his coworkers before nervously scratching at the short hairs on the back of his neck.

He had thought this through, professionally if not personally. Leaving Gibbs and the rest of them had been a long time coming. Not because he wanted to leave them, but because it seemed to be the natural progression of things. If turning down one promotion was a show of loyalty, then turning down two was a show of codependency. Gibbs had given him the nudge nudge, shove shove. Not because he wanted to see Tony gone, but - again - because it seemed to be the natural progression of things.

The natural progression of things. Tony had gladly taken the hint. "Looks like McGoo will have another shot at senior field agent after all," he joked.

Ziva was quick. Too quick. "Is McGee leaving?" She looked immediately at Tim, who appeared thoroughly rankled.

"No, Zee-vah, I am. Finally got that promotion I hadn't exactly been looking for. But I won't complain."

He winked. She frowned.

"Where will you go?"

"Great Lakes, Illinois."

"Where?"

Gibbs broke in as he scribbled something on a notepad. "Home of the Navy's very own boot camp, Ziver."

"I guess I should know that," Ziva admitted.

"Yes, you should," Gibbs replied, even though he didn't appear to care in the least bit. That seemed to be his theme today.

"Well, this is all very sudden." Ziva looked directly at Gibbs. "And you are letting him go?"

Gibbs had turned fully back to his work. But he did answer. "Do I look like his keeper?"

Frustrated, she looked to Tim. "Did you know about this? You two have been close lately, yes?"

Tim shrugged with suitable nonchalance, although Ziva's words made him want to laugh out loud. He gathered up a file and stood from his chair, looking a bit more hurried than he'd meant to. "Um," he spoke. "I have to see Abby about something. One of the cold cases, boss."

Gibbs gestured his permission, while Tony had set his gaze intently on the younger man, as if daring him to say anything incriminating.

Tim paused at Tony's desk. Everything was different in the bullpen, yet still it was odd to be staring at the same face he'd willing let near his nether regions mere days ago. Things had gotten out of hand; that was the only explanation he had for all of this. Tim set his jaw as his sweaty palms clutched at the file. "Congratulations, DiNozzo," he forced out in a measured tone. "I hope you're happy."

"Thanks," Tony replied, voice suspiciously warm and appreciative. "I am happy."

* * *

"So, when are you leaving?" Ziva asked. She had been needling him for details ever since McGee had taken his leave.

"Soon enough," Tony murmured as he stapled some papers with enough force to make the desk shake.

* * *

The handwritten notes started showing up soon thereafter, always left in places conspicuous enough for Tim to notice. First it was the corner of a scrap piece of paper sticking out from underneath his keyboard. Then it was an index card jammed into the seam of his locker. Then it was a crinkled CVS receipt tucked under the wiper blade of his car. A picture of a sad kitten folded into the spare shirt he started keeping in his desk drawer. A throw-away requisition form in the camera case. A dollar bill left on his boxers as he took a shower at the gym. A neon green post-it note stuck to the barrel of his gun.

Every time a new one surfaced, Tim's face flushed as he quickly shoved the offending item into his pocket, glancing both ways as he did so. The notes were uncomfortable and embarrassing, but he had chosen not to confront Tony about. He knew that's what Tony wanted; he was seeking attention from wherever he could get it. Positive or negative, it didn't matter.

The two of them were floating on the same yet slightly different plane of reality while at work, and outside of work they hadn't been speaking at all. Tim still staunchly refused to acknowledge the notes, not even when their placement became more and more risky, and the desperation expressed became more and more acute. And weird.

_Tim-_

_I'm sorry._

_Tony_

And so on:

_Don't be angry with me._

_I'll make it up to you sometime._

_I miss you._

_This isn't what I'd intended._

_I'll try harder next time._

_I wish I wasn't this way._

_Please talk to me._

When pitted against difficult personalities, Tim was significantly more durable than most. But there were limits.

So when Tim half-jogged through the darkened parking garage towards his car and found yet another note waiting for him, one limit had clearly been surpassed. He reached out to grasp the door handle only to snatch his hand away sharply. A condom had been tucked under the handle, and it fell free as soon as he'd touched it. Tim blinked and stared dumbly at the red plastic package lying innocuously on the concrete. Glancing behind him briefly, he leaned down to pick it up gingerly between his index finger and thumb. A small post-it note had been affixed to the back. The writing was cramped, yet neat enough to read.

_Tim-_

_Let me show you what I am to you._

_Tony_

* * *

After taking the whole evening to worry, plan and deliberate, Tim finally decided to take proactive measures. So the next morning, just before eight, he discreetly shoved Tony into Storage Closet 3001, slapped on the lights, and locked the door behind them.

"What the hell is this, Tony?" Tim hissed. He grabbed a fistful of wadded paper - condom included - from his pockets, tossing all of it right at Tony's face. The mangled notes fluttered harmlessly to the floor like confetti, but the condom package bounced off of Tony's nose.

Tony stared at Tim, as if seeing him for the first time in days. "I see you found my notes," he said.

"Yeah. I did," Tim deadpanned.

"And?"

Tim knit his brows together before shaking his head and running both hands through his short hair. "Honestly? They were getting a little creepy. Especially when I found the condom on my car!"

Suddenly, Tony was smiling. And then he started laughing.

"This isn't funny, Tony! You think that's a good joke?" Tim took a step closer, clambering over a mop bucket to do so. He shoved half-heartedly at Tony's chest. "At best, it's creepy. At worst, it's harassment."

"No, it's funny, McVirtuous," Tony argued. He was still laughing in fits and starts, hiccupping in amusement, even as one of Tim's previously noncommittal shoves pushed his shoulder blades hard into the wooden shelf behind him.

"What if somebody else had found one of those, huh? Ziva. Abby. Gibbs!" Tim fisted the lapels of Tony's suit coat, as if just now realizing the implications if that happened. "Stop laughing!" He shoved him harder in sheer frustration. Much harder. Tony's head connected audibly with the shelf. That did the trick; the laughing stopped immediately. "Sorry," Tim apologized with a wince.

"Whoa," Tony breathed as he blinked away the flecks of light lingering in his vision. He brought his hands up to grip Tim's biceps. "You working out at the gym again, McMuscular?"

Tim stared at the smirk Tony somehow still fostered. He set his jaw and regained momentum. "Anybody could have found those notes. Don't do that to me again, Tony. I'm serious. What might be funny to you isn't funny to everybody."

"Are you embarrassed?" Tony asked.

Tim huffed out a breath and answered, "I am now."

Tony shifted his hands to Tim's wrists in an attempt to pry his fingers away from his coat. "Do I embarrass you Tim?"

"You infuriate me."

"Well," Tony shrugged as if that answer was of no consequence to him. "At least I got you to talk to me. What's up with the silent treatment? Look, I'm sorry about the whole new job thing. I'm sorry for asking you to come with me. I just- I thought it would be fun and different and-"

"Are you sorry about the notes?" Tim interrupted.

"Forget about the notes!" Tony cried. "I was just messing with you. You're too sensitive."

Tim frowned, his green eyes still harboring a fair amount of suspicion.

"You didn't seriously believe that I'd turned into a crazy stalker, did you?!"

"Shh!" Tim warned, glancing towards the door. He then turned back to Tony, raking his eyes over his friend's face, looking for something he couldn't yet identify. Tony smelled like toothpaste, and it reminded him of the first time they'd thought to kiss each other. It was such a novel idea at the time. Not completely a mistake, Tim had to tell himself. Not a mistake. "So what's your secret, Tony?" "Lots of toothpaste."

Tim swallowed. "Are you sorry you had sex with that woman at the restaurant?"

Tony paused before cautiously answering. "Is that what this is all about?"

"Just answer the question, Tony."

After a lengthy pause, Tim shook his head. "I must be kidding myself," he said, "Trying to get a straight answer out of you." When he stepped away, his foot caught on the mop bucket, and he stumbled into a cart stacked high with toilet paper and paper towels. Tony reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him before he took a header into a collection of industrial sized containers of Pine Sol. After regaining his equilibrium, Tim yanked his arm away. "We're done here." He started picking up his own mess, grabbing the scattered pieces of paper with angry swipes of his hands. Even when locked in a rage, Tim was conscientious.

"Wow," Tony commented sarcastically from where he remained unmoved against the shelving unit. He didn't move to help. "You know, sometimes you're moodier than a woman."

Tim paused his attempts at straightening out the sleeves of his own shirt. "What?" He barked.

"I said-"

"I know what you said!" Tim suddenly exploded in a fury of emotion. He seemed to forget the need for quiet.

"Jesus, Tim. Calm down."

"I'm not doing this, Tony. I refuse to play this game with you." Tim almost tripped over the mop bucket again. "Damn this thing," he cursed as he shoved it aside. "If we want to continue this, then you have to choose. You have to commit to something."

Tony scoffed in poorly concealed amusement. "Tim…"

"I know it's a foreign concept for you, DiNozzo. Trying to imagine it right now, actually. You. Committing. I don't think you've done that since Boss handed you this job."

"Hey!" Tony defended himself. "I earned this job, just like you."

Tim said nothing. He was counting the notes, making sure he had all the ones he'd thrown.

"Why would you say that, McGee?" Tony pressed.

Tim snapped at him. "Now who's being too sensitive?"

Tony took a moment to think while he slouched by the shelves. He didn't like letting the tables turn on him; he didn't like letting Tim have the advantage. Lack of control preyed on his insecurities. "What, are you jealous?" He needled.

Suddenly, Tim was at Tony's throat again. "Jealous of what?" He snarled, ramming Tony against the shelves again. This time he didn't pause to apologize when Tony gasped. "Of all of your nameless, faceless fucks? Why would I be jealous of that?"

Tony was too busy catching his breath to do anything else but stand still.

"I want you to respect me," Tim demanded in his face. "I want you to respect yourself!"

Before either of them knew it, they were physically fighting. They grappled with each other, limbs flying and curses muffled. Tony used his weight for his own benefit, shoving his chest forward and sending them both careening into the toilet paper. The edge of the cart dug into Tim's hip. He flinched and grabbed Tony around the waist. Tony tripped and fell to his knees yanking Tim with him. With the toilet paper cushioning their fall, they started wrestling in earnest, although their movements lacked the previous violence.

Tim grabbed at Tony's wrist as he fought to pin him facedown on the floor. At the same time Tony wrenched himself away, grabbing at Tim's sides and trying to roll him over. They went through this several times, both of them trying to "arrest" one another but neither letting the other win. Their wrists ached from grabbing and tugging at each other, as did everything else. Despite the toilet paper padding, the floor was still unyielding and the mop bucket kept getting in the way. Again. Soon they were shaking with breathless laughter as their attempts became more and more playfully ridiculous.

"This mop bucket," Tony panted.

Tim snorted, "I know, right?"

"It's a bastard."

"Ouch, my hand."

"Sorry. But I'm pretty sure you bruised my kidney."

"You deserved it."

With much effort, Tim finally managed to muscle Tony facedown onto the floor, using Tony's twisted arm as leverage. He put a knee between his shoulder blades. "I win!" Tim declared.

"I can't breathe," Tony grunted.

Tim let go of his wrist and took some weight off of his back. He was only momentarily stunned when Tony used that to his advantage, rolling onto his back, grabbing Tim by the arms and reversing their positions. "Nuh uh. I win." Tony pinned Tim's arms roughly against his chest and grinned.

"Cheater," Tim looked up as he tried to rein in his heavy breathing.

Tony chuckled wolfishly. "If you're thinking about kneeing me in the balls, I'll have Gibbs demote you."

"You'd never," Tim spoke quietly. "You smell like toothpaste."

Tony raised a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And then something strange happened. Tony blushed, let go of Tim's arms, and struggled to his feet. "Why are we making this so complicated?" He then baldly asked. "Why are we in this closet? Figuratively. Literally." He checked his watch while straightening his clothes and touching the back of his head gingerly.

Tim rose slowly to do the same. He looked around at the mess they'd made. "I don't know, Tony. But uh- I do know I'm gonna miss you… when you go." He then shrugged in an attempt to diffuse the seriousness of his words. He shoved a roll of toilet paper into Tony's hands and nodded. "But anyway, this is your cover story for being in here. If anyone asks. I'll come out later with something else. Okay?"

Tony regarded the slightly crushed roll. "Gotcha."


	3. Chapter 3

_..."Yeah," he looked around like he was blind, eyed the empty chair once more. "I think so."..._

**Chapter Three**

Tony stared at the selection of toilet paper located in aisle nine of North Chicago's Jewel-Osco. His hand twitched as he considered his options. Single-ply. Double-ply. Store brand. National brand. 60% more sheets per roll. He grabbed a nine-roll package, ignoring the price, and tossed it into his cart. It would mingle well with the loaf of white bread, cold cuts, and mayonnaise. Soup cans. Goldfish crackers. A six pack of beer.

Every time he bought toilet paper, he thought about calling or texting or emailing. Hell, he'd write a damn letter if he thought it would make a difference. Toilet paper may have been an odd reminder, but it was what it was. And it was only one reminder of many. Mocking him.

The first week of April had brought winter's last gasp to the city. A stiff sub-arctic wind blew off of the lake and the clouds came in thick and leaden, bringing with them wet snow. But Chicago had been hardened already by months of miserable weather. Its daily pulse remained unthreatened.

Tony's car was encrusted with road salt. He juggled the bags in his hands as attempted to unlock the trunk. The keys fell into the black snow muck that covered the parking lot. He swore loudly and leaned down to pick them up.

* * *

"So I guess this is it," Tim spoke. He was quietly surveying the boxed-up apartment from where he sat cross-legged against the wall. He took a slow drink from the warming bottle of beer he kept beside him. It left a ring of condensation on the hardwood.

"This is what?" Tony muttered as he turned his head. He also sat against the wall, next to Tim. He let his legs spread out in front of him. He kept his own bottle of beer between his thighs. His fingers picked at the label.

Tim shrugged, "Where our story ends, I guess."

"We have a story?" Tony let himself smile, weak and tired as it was.

"There was something. Maybe." Tim shrugged again and took another drink. "I don't know. Maybe I wanted to make too much of it."

Tony reached out a bare foot and pushed a nearby cardboard box further away, just because he could. It was heavy and sloppily labeled: "DVDs." Abby had left a half hour ago, taking her skull and crossbones strapping tape along with her. She had been remarkably good at this whole packing thing, marching around in her calf-high boots and organizing Tony's things as if they were her own. Tony was almost embarrassed by the amount of junk he had managed to accumulate over the past few years. He even found a couple things he thought he'd lost.

But now, with the bulk of the work done and the dust settling and Abby gone, Tim stuck around without an invitation. He kept saying that he should go, but he didn't. Tony wasn't going to argue. The last thing he wanted to do was sit here with a bunch of cardboard boxes as his only company. Alone with his decision. The sudden doubt was enough to choke a man.

"You're the writer," Tony said. "Is this how it ought to end?"

Tim shook his head. "This isn't a very good ending," he admitted.

"I agree," Tony finished off his beer and set it down with a thunk. "It's not." He looked sideways at Tim yet again, watching as Tim gnawed anxiously at his own bottom lip.

"I would have written it differently," Tim started to say. "Better. But you being you-"

Tony interrupted, "You could still come with me. That would be an ending."

Tim heaved a sigh and shook his head, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "No, Tony."

"Okay. Here goes."

Tim looked over, curious.

"Agent Tommy goes to the airport." Tony was suddenly on his knees, shifting stiffly until he was practically kneeling in Tim's lap. "He's about to go through the security checkpoint. Takes off his shoes and his belt and all that. Makes sure he doesn't have any liquids in his bag. Removes his laptop. Etcetera, etcetera."

Tim watched, quietly. He looked down at his lap as Tony's fingers began to loosen the excess leather of his belt. He had to remember to breathe.

"He's sad," Tony continued before pausing in thought. "I know you'd come up with a better word. Gloomy, maybe. Distressed. He's gloomy and distressed - no, depressed - because he's leaving a very special person behind. That okay?"

"Sure," Tim agreed amicably.

"And maybe Agent Tommy doesn't know exactly who this person is to him. They're both confused by what they feel, and a little bit afraid." Tony paused again. "Befuddled? Perplexed?"

"Too much, DiNozzo," Tim whispered. His breath smelled like beer, and he was suddenly self-conscious about that. But he knew Tony's wasn't much better; he was speaking practically right into his ear. But at this point, no one cared enough to stop for a mint.

Tony leaned forward even more. "But Tommy just knows this person is special because he's gentle and smart and knows how to keep him in line." Tony smiled and pulled at the belt. The buckle released, allowing him to remove it completely.

Tim then felt hands against his skin. Rough, familiar fingers trailed up and then down his sides. The button on his jeans was undone. Tim licked his suddenly parched lips and studied Tony's face, attempted to note every pore, wrinkle, and stray hair forgotten by the razor. "Tony," he warned without much conviction.

Tony only shook his head. "Then, lo and behold- Can I use that?"

Tim didn't answer; he closed his eyes and made a strange "ung" sound in his throat.

"Lo and behold," Tony went on, a hand traveling from Tim's belly button downwards. "McGregor shows up, and he says-"

"Fuck," Tim sputtered softly. "Really?" He felt a hand gripping him now. He dragged in a few breaths. "Tony." Tim didn't really care about the rest of Tony's story about Agents Tommy and McGregor anymore. Screw them. He kept his eyes shut.

"This is a good ending," Tim admitted in a whisper. "This is a very good ending."

* * *

Tony struggled back into awareness. White curtains materialized from black unconsciousness. He blinked to clear his vision and licked dry lips. Confused, he looked around. A hand went automatically to his side, feeling blindly for his gun.

It wasn't there.

He then fingered an IV buried in his arm. He felt too weak to move, too weak to think, too weak to even form an intelligible question. Dull hazel eyes searched the immediate area. Dreary curtains, aging tile floor. There was only one chair in this tiny curtained cube, and it was empty. Nausea roiled in his belly. He shut his eyes tightly and fought for the memories that would lead him to this moment.

Tony felt like he'd waited for hours until a head poked through the curtain. "Hey there," the nurse greeted easily. "Glad to see you're finally with us."

"Wha'-" Tony croaked before gagging. He swallowed convulsively, but he was clearly losing the battle. The nurse quickly nestled a basin next to Tony's head as he heaved, producing nothing but a thin, foul tasting liquid. He moaned before heaving again with a painful horking sound. He blinked in embarrassment as he felt the sudden and intense urge to urinate. "I go' pee," he rasped nonsensically. He licked at his lips wanting to get the acrid taste of the vomit out of his mouth.

The nurse frowned at her patient's continued distress. "You're in the emergency room. Don't touch the catheter," she informed him as she filled a cup of water. "Rinse your mouth first."

Tony grasped the cup carefully in both hands. He was shaking and could barely hold it steady as he wrenched his body into an acceptable position for drinking. He still spilled all over himself. Spitting out a mouthful into the basin, he gulped the rest down.

"You may be seeing that again soon, hun," the nurse commented with a small smile, pulling the basin and the cup away. "And maybe a straw will work better next time."

But Tony could find no humor in this moment. "What happn'd?" he managed to ask, his voice nothing but guttural grunts.

"People found you passed out by your car at the Jewel-Osco."

Tony blinked. Vaguely, he remembered contemplating toilet paper. He struggled to make his speech clearer. "What happened to me?"

"Well, we don't know yet, hun. But the doctor has an idea."

"Can I leave?"

The nurse eyeballed him. "D'you feel like you can get up and walk?"

Tony frowned, but he answered honestly. "No."

"That's settled," she moved to leave, but then paused. "You got somebody you can call?"

He was still confused, beating back the nausea. "Yeah," he looked around like he was blind, eyed the empty chair once more. "I think so."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the delayed posting of this final chapter. My only excuse is that I'm exclusively using a small tablet for internet access/writing these days, and using it is rather annoying.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Tony lost track of how many times he'd unwillingly fallen asleep throughout the day.

He woke up one time with a stranger in his face - a nurse with a well-intentioned message. He took a weak swipe at him, but his wrist was caught easily. "Hey, you're okay," the man spoke down at him, appearing from some sort of ether cloud. "You're coming out of a seizure. Calm down, okay?"

So maybe he hadn't exactly been sleeping that time. He could do nothing for himself but breathe heavily and try to keep the drool to a minimum. There was confusion, too. He couldn't tell if it was an hour or a minute that had passed.

After a doctor had yet again come and gone from his room, this time with a useful bit of news, he caved and fumbled with his cell phone someone had kindly left within reach. They'd been nudging him. Call someone. Do you have somebody? Call them.

He hadn't yet.

Gibbs was speed dial number two.

They'd gradually fallen out of touch over the past two months. It wasn't an intentional thing, just something that happened, organic and unapologetic. Yet despite that, their conversation now felt more familiar than it had ever felt before. It was strange how their unlikely friendship had mellowed now that they stood on more equal footing. Gibbs didn't seem to mind that it was nearly two in the morning.

Tony's slurred speech was improving, but Gibbs had picked up on it immediately.

"Look, boss," - Apparently, old habits died hard. - "They say I had a stroke. I don't know. Some people found me keeled over by my car. I'm kinda just cooling my heels at the hospital right now. I'm okay; the doc says I'm lucky, but they also mentioned something about seizure activity and they wanna do an MRI, but-"

"Jesus, Tony," Gibbs broke in. "Slow down. You had a what?"

"A stroke," Tony repeated. "God, boss, I don't get it. It's not like I'm- And fuck, it sounds like I'm talking with a mouthful of marbles. I'm fucking pissed right now."

"And what about a seizure?" Gibbs was attempting to keep things straight.

"I don't know what they're talking about. They shot me up with enough diazepam to bring down a large gorilla. I can barely function right now, boss. Pretty sure I'm pissing into a bag. I'm so confused," he admitted. "I almost decked a nurse in the face."

"You got someone there with you?"

Tony hesitated, strangely embarrassed. "No. You're the first person I've thought to call. I was alone when it happened." Vaguely, he remembered the feeling of his hands submerged in cold, gritty slush. He felt a new stab of panic; he'd lost a huge chunk of time. Anything could have happened. _I'm alone here_, he wanted to add, but he didn't.

"Relax." Gibbs' voice seemed to reach out to him in tangible form from the phone.

And Tony relaxed; the two of them had an old and weathered understanding of each other. Tony hadn't realized how much he missed that easy closeness. "Gibbs-"

"Hey, you're still breathing. That's always a start."

* * *

Tony thought he was dreaming at first. He had to be dreaming.

Why else would Tim McGee be slouched on one of the nearby chairs? But sure enough, there he was. Or at least a really convincing look-alike. His winter coat was all bunched up and wrinkled on his lap. His shoes were off and his socked feet rested on a lumpy duffel bag. He looked a bit rumpled, a bit worn down from something, eyes a bit bloodshot. But those green eyes were looking straight at Tony, who'd been decidedly insensate for who knows how long.

"But I called Gibbs?" Tony mumbled, confused. It was the first thing that had come to mind, but it was only a whole minute afterwards that he realized what a rude and ungrateful cuss he sounded like.

"And Gibbs called me," Tim responded, voice quiet. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "So I packed a bag and teleported here."

"Tele-what?" Tony stared. His eyes fought through the darkness and the distance between them. He needed to see Tim's face. If he and Gibbs had fallen out of touch over the months, he and Tim had become as distant as strangers. Or so they assumed. "Oh, that was a joke."

"Yeah, Tones, it was."

There would always be something between them. Something thinly buried under the soil of their opposing circumstances. Maybe all it needed was a drop of water in order to germinate into something new and fresh.

Tony had to be hallucinating. That was it. Just some post-medical crisis wishful thinking. "You came," he said around the gathering lump in his throat.

"Yeah." But then Tim smiled in faint amusement, just a tiny quirk of his lips. "Are you crying?"

"No," Tony denied.

Tim scooted the chair closer. The legs scraped noisily against the floor. "I think I see something."

"It's this fucking diazepam. I'm all out of whack, Tim. They got me all fucked up. God, I'm sorry, I-"

"Hey. Stop."

"You didn't have to come-"

"No I didn't."

"You must have paid an arm and a leg to-"

"I wanted to," Tim interrupted him yet again.

"You coulda just called or something. Sent me a card." Tony looked away from him, gazing up instead at the ceiling. "You look good, Tim."

"No I don't," Tim scoffed, rubbing his red eyes. "And I wouldn't send you a damn card, Tony. This is serious, isn't it?"

Tony kept quiet, until finally he admitted, "It's a relief to see you." He turned his eyes back to Tim. "Never thought I'd say that out loud. Looks like I just did. I miss you. It's stupid, I know-"

"We're gonna have to talk, okay?" Tim reached out and nudged his shoulder. "Things are different."

* * *

The key's jagged edges bit into his palm as he jogged up the two flights of stairs. He turned the corner and headed down a long hallway of numbered doors, all of them shut tight against the outside world.

It was a modest sort of complex, not nearly as flashy as the place Tony had kept for over a decade in DC. That building had been rent-controlled, though, and the likelihood of any of them being able to hold onto a rental like that nowadays seemed like a pipedream. But this area seemed generically affordable. It was one of those places you'd flip to in any rental booklet in any town. Convenient, reasonably quiet, well-lit, some green space. Maybe there had been a move-in special, or maybe Tony hadn't been given the chance to be too picky. The suburban, single-family feel of the surrounding neighborhood was a surprise, but then again this northwestern Chicago burb did provide equal access to both Great Lakes - where the office was - and Chicago proper - where the fun stuff happened. There was an airport nearby, and the dull roar of engines occasionally cut through the walls.

Tim had been given an important duty. Kate the goldfish had gone without a meal for nearly three days. Tony had been slightly hysterical when he remembered that fact.

He unlocked the door to number 347 and pushed into the dark space. The apartment smelled a bit stale, probably from old garbage, or dirty laundry, or dishes left too long in the sink. Tim felt the wall for a light switch. After a moment of blind groping, he found three and flipped them all on.

The first thing he noticed were the cardboard boxes, some unopened and stacked hastily in the corner of the living room area. Others had been cut open, but only partially unpacked. Stacks of books, CDs, and DVDs leaned in Dr Suessian towers on the coffee table and entertainment center. None of them were organized. None of them were set in any semblance of order on the shelves. A bowl of popcorn kernels congealed in butter sat next to the madness. The TV remotes were on the floor, next to a throw pillow and a rumpled afghan. There were more than a couple beer bottles left abandoned on various surfaces.

Tim didn't wish to be a voyeur, but this was an odd and uncensored look into Tony's new life. Tony clearly wasn't a fan of unpacking. Or straightening up.

He found Kate's bowl perched on its own table. He opened the drawer underneath and pulled out a cylinder of goldfish flakes. There was also a six pack of weekend feeders; one had already been hastily ripped out. Kate swam in lazy circles, waiting. For a common goldfish, she appeared surprisingly pissed off at the injustice of her recent neglect.

"He's got you trained, doesn't he," Tim murmured as he popped out one of the weekend feeders. He dropped it in with a plop, and watched as it sank like a rock to the decorative marbles below. Kate regarded it skeptically. The goldfish was perhaps a bit too much like her namesake. Tim added a pinch of flakes as an afterthought before moving into the bedroom to gather some clothes that Tony had requested.

The bed was unmade, the sheets twisted and wrinkled. Clothes spread out over the floor, despite the laundry basket that sat empty in the corner. There were boxes in here, too. Unopened, or only opened for one or two items. The walls were barren. The closet door gaped open. Tim dug around doggedly for some fresh clothes.

He passed the nightstand but paused, turning back around to stare at the photograph of Jethro propped up in a frame. Tim and Jethro. Tucked in the corner of the frame was another photo, Tony and his mom - it had to be. He found himself smiling softly at the empty room.

There were papers folded up nearby. With guilty curiosity, Tim reached out and grabbed them. He smoothed them out and let his eyes skim the typed words mixed with Tony's sloppy handwriting.

Resignation papers. Originals, not a copy. Signed. Just waiting for a decision.

* * *

Seizure disorder. That's what they were talking about. Tony almost tuned out the doc's verbal love letter of a soliloquy dedicated to the subject. He kept a hand over his face, thinking it might be enough to hide the most acute reaction to the news thus far. Why why why, he wanted to ask. But Tony wasn't interested in the complexities of the brain or in strange twists of fate right now.

He just wanted to know why. Why the fuck now? Why ever?

* * *

Tim caught the tail-end of the exchange. He nodded politely at the doctor as they passed each other in the doorway, a plastic grocery bag filled with a change of clothes in his hand. But the doctor - a woman this time - stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Silently, she ushered him further into the hallway.

"You might want to give him some time," she suggested quietly. "Look, I'm only telling you this because you're partners and he said it was okay if I told you-"

"Wait," Tim spoke up quickly.

"What is it?"

Tim opened his mouth to correct her facts, but then he paused and shook his head. "Never mind. Go ahead."

"The stroke he suffered was minor, and the lasting physical effects seem to be minimal, which is incredible. But I'm most concerned about the seizures. Stroke affects the brain. Cells die, the damage is longlasting. Damage to the brain causes seizures." She stopped.

"I'm following," he said.

"We did an MRI of the brain. The stroke is really inconsequential, probably an indication of what was already there-"

"Did I do it?" Tim blurted. "Maybe two months ago... I pushed him, he hit his head. He was okay, but..."

The doctor eyed him strangely, but answered, "No. We're talking about more than one instance of massive trauma followed by a period of unconsciousness, not a bump on the head."

"Oh."

"The seizures could be an isolated after effect of the stroke. But if he has another within the next two weeks, it might be epilepsy. Additional seizures over the next month definitely mean epilepsy."

"God-"

"He's lucky. He'll walk away from that stroke. That doesn't happen often. He might not have another seizure. And even if he does, they can be managed."

Tim nodded and gazed towards the door. "I know him. He's a mess, but he never knows how to express it."

* * *

"Tony, you okay?"

That was Tim. He had a frown on his face, small and sincere. They were alone.

"You need a bit?"

"For what?" Tony asked, deadpan.

Tim shrugged.

"I got all the time in the world now," he snapped. "My career is over."

"C'mon," Tim scoffed, but then he thought of those papers on the nightstand. "Don't be so hasty."

"Nobody wants a seizing-Sammy weilding a gun, McGee. You heard the woman. She said it could take months just to figure out what dose of damn meds I'll need."

"If you need them. She also said you might never have another seizure again."

"Or I'll have one tomorrow. Or a week from now. A month. This is awesome."

"She said the stroke you had was minor," Tim argued. "Look, you can walk and talk just fine. That's a miracle. My uncle had a stroke at fifty, and he had to completely relearn how to talk, how to get dressed, how to... Everything. So can we both back up and count our blessings here?"

Tony waved his hand dismissively as he changed the subject. "Is Kate okay?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yeah. She's fine. I gave her a weekend feeder."

"Good." Tony put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Tim reached out a hand and touched Tony's wrist. "I saw all of your boxes."

"Yeah, the place is a mess. Been busy."

"Kinda looks like you don't plan to unpack them."

Tony opened his eyes. He looked at Tim's hand loosely wrapped around his wrist. "And what makes you think that?" His voice was a bit more harsh than was necessary.

Tim withdrew his hand. This was Tony being Tony. An impenetrable wall surrounded by false illusions. He felt oddly disappointed, as if he expected something different this time.

"Only good news is that I can roll out of this hell hole tomorrow morning, so says the pretty lady doctor," Tony looked out of the window. He had a great view of a brick wall split into halves by a rusty fire escape. "Where are you staying?"

"The Marriott down the road," Tim shrugged. It felt like a clod of clay had settled somewhere in his gut. "I had some points saved up. It's nice. Free WiFi."

"I'm sure Gibbs wants you to get back. I'll be fine. You didn't need to come."

"Gibbs said I could take as long as I needed, as long as you needed. Within reason, of course, and then only until something drastic happens..."

"Our Gibbs said that?" Tony was skeptical.

"He did. So I'm staying."

"You don't need to."

"I think I need to. Who's going to keep an eye on you?"

Tony bristled. "I don't need anybody to keep an eye on me. I'm just fine."

"And what if you have another seizure?"

Tony didn't have an answer for that because he knew Tim was right.

"You don't need to do this alone," Tim said.

"You don't need-" Tony efforts were feeble now, but he was a stubborn man.

"Maybe I don't need to, but I want to."

"I don't know if I can let you do that."

* * *

They fought, verbally.

The words drew blood.

This was what Tony was good at. He was an expert at turning a phrase. Tim always struggled to keep up.

Having heard enough, Tim stood abruptly from the chair and paced from wall to wall once or twice before turning towards Tony. His brows were knit in a worried line above his eyes. "I made a huge mistake."

"What are you talking about?" Tony asked, wary of where Tim was going with this.

"The both of us. I'm so stupid. We're both so stupid. I told myself... Don't do it, Tim. Don't fall for it."

"If you're trying to convince me to regret what we had back home, it won't work." Tony wasn't always as clueless as he looked.

Tim's face softened and he slumped back into the chair. "What was it then? What did we have?"

Tony didn't answer that question directly, but he did say, "I should have stayed. I shouldn't have taken this job."

"No, Tony," Tim shook his head firmly. "That's not what I'm trying to tell you."

"Then what is it? I can't read your mind, Tim."

Tim pressed his palms into his forehead and stared at his feet. He stayed like that for a while. Just sitting there, breathing, and no doubt trying to figure out the thoughts and sudden emotion getting tangled up in his brain. "That's just it, isn't it? You can't read my mind." He paused, settled his hands on his knees. "I can't read yours either. You don't tell me things. You can't or won't. I've given you plenty of space."

Tim was a logical person. He wasn't one to get caught up in the thrill of emotion. He was sensitive, maybe even romantic, but this was real life.

Girlfriends - or even boyfriends - come and go. Love doesn't conquer all. Nobody dies of heartache. Time and circumstance matter more than sentiment.

But logic had long been left crumpled and bleeding. He wanted to reach out and grab Tony's shoulders. He wanted to shake him roughly and say, 'Look what you've done to me!' This relationship had left him blindsided and confused. And when Tony had finally left him, he had nothing to show for it but a wide swath of destruction. Rebuilding seemed nearly impossible. Where was he supposed to go?

Tim had to admit it: "I was falling in love with you."

Tony stared at him. No smile.

"But I had to stop."

"Tim-"

"No, let me finish." He looked Tony in the eye. "Please. It won't take long."

_"I've never done this before."_

_Panting and sweating and rough movements driving the both of them into the couch. And laughing, lots of laughing. Smiling into each other's mouths._

_"Mmm. Really. I don't believe you, Mc- Oh. Do that again."_

_It's enthralling, this notion that Tony prefers not to lead in this endeavor. Somehow that makes things all the more wild._

"Being with you was always fun. Always. Frustrating - yeah, sure - but I've never had so much fun with anybody else. I got carried away with it, maybe. I got caught up in you, the idea of you. You're like that; you're fucking magnetic.

"Listen, Tony- I've only now realized that when you asked me to follow you here, that was you trying to tell me something. Wasn't it? And when I asked if you loved me that night, you couldn't say if you did or not. We were done with each other. Weren't we?"

_"I don't get you, Tony. You're hot, cold, lukewarm. Everything at once. I can't keep up. Just please, for once, be straight with me."_

_Arguing, fighting. Loudly, softly. Over small stuff, big stuff._

_"C'mon, Timmy. Let's forget about all this crap."_

_Because that's what Tony wanted, their friendship plus a little more._

"_Listen_, Tony- I know you've been hurt. I know you're cautious. I know, I know. You're dragging around a lot of baggage. I get it, okay? You've been through Hell and back again. But Tony, you gotta tell me how you feel. I've been so patient. You gotta let me know where we stand with each other. You can't expect me to guess.

"I have agonized over the choices you've made when I should have been agonizing over my own. And I can't- I can't control what you do. I can't control what you share with me and what you don't. I can't control who you fuck and who you don't, even though that bugs the hell out of me. But you know, and I know, that this was never really about sex, which I gotta say is something new for you. Admit it, Tony. Does that scare you? This is deeper than that.

"All I can do is let you know that I fell hard for you, and when I tried to stop, I couldn't. I can't let you go. And if you don't feel the same, I'm sorry."

_"What's that look for?" It's Tim's self-conscious doubt. Always the feeling that he's somehow on the outside of another joke._

_Sitting across from each other at work is hard, but easy, too. Sometimes. Natural. Pouring over paperwork, small details, tiny clues. It's these moments that they both live for. Evading suspicion. Mostly._

_"Just thinking." Looking at the paperwork again, it's as if Tony hadn't been staring at him for nearly three whole minutes. They're alone. The moment is beautiful yet incredibly imperfect._

_"About what?"_

_"Where we should have lunch. Because you're paying."_

"Listen, Tony-"

"Stop," Tony cut in. "Don't say anything else."

Tim looked beyond exhausted, slumped on the chair, soul exposed.

Tony seemed to pause in thought before he went on to offer, "Forget about the Marriott. Stay with me. I'll tell you everything."

"No," Tim balked. "Tell me everything now. Why wait? I know you have the words, Tones, somewhere."

"Not sure about that."

Tim bit back a half-amused half-exasperated laugh. "Jesus, I'm not asking for you to declare your undying and eternal love for me. I'm just looking for a little common ground. Can we handle that?"

"No, no. You're right. I got this."

Tim waited, brows lifted in patient anticipation.

"One- I love when you call me that."

"Call you what?"

"Tones. The fact that you can make a nickname out of a nickname amazes me."

Tim looked skeptical.

"Two- I love when you're cutting onions with a big knife and you've got tears in your eyes. Or when you're WD40'ing some squeaky hinge - and no that's not some sort of euphemism - 'cause you just don't seem like a WD40 kind of guy. Or when you've got that look of concentration on your face, like you don't understand but you're getting close." Tony smiled. "Yeah, that's it. The face you have right now."

"Tony," Tim warned as he tried to wrestle his expression into something a bit more neutral. But that was hard to do.

"Three- I love how earnest you are. Your folks shoulda named you that."

"What? Ernest?"

"Yeah. Ernest McGee. I think I like it."

Tim frowned at him. "Tony." Second warning.

"You never do anything halfway. It's all or nothing with you. I fucking love that, Tim. You're the best boyfriend I've ever had. Sure, maybe the only boyfriend, but I think that makes this all the more special. Right? You're my best friend. I suck at this, but here goes.

"I've treated you like shit. I've kept secrets. Kept you in the dark. Strung you along. All because I didn't know what to do with you. I wanted you, but on my terms only. And that's pretty fucked up, Tim. I realize that's how I am. I hate it. I want to change. For you, I want to change. You amaze me. You came all this way for some asshole like me. Shit. I think I love you."

"Wow. You don't have to say that, Tony. I don't want to force you into it."

"No, this is the truth. I think it's love, and god you have to believe me; I hardly know what it is anymore."

"I think you do." Tim squeezed Tony's forearm, the one free of any needles.

Tony just breathed and studied the familiar lines on Tim's face. There was a smile there now. No look of confusion. "You know, if I wasn't tied to this bed right now with a very thick needle sticking out of my arm, I think the both of us might catch a charge for public indecency."

"You think?"

"Yup."

"Hmm." Tim appeared thoughtful as he and Tony linked their fingers together. "I could probably settle for McErnest."

"McLover." Tony laughed quietly.

"I hate that word."

"I know you do."

"Let's give us a shot, okay?" Tim suggested. "Another one. Let's be patient with each other."

"Let's do it."

"Or try at least."

They kissed, slow and dry, their hands still clasped - Tim leaning over awkwardly - and when they had their fill, they laughed into each other's mouths.


End file.
